


Kahlua

by Teland



Series: Asylum [1]
Category: due South
Genre: First Time, Hook-Up, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-08-09
Updated: 1999-08-09
Packaged: 2020-12-29 00:02:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21145424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Ray makes a new friend.





	Kahlua

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgments: To Dawn Sharon and Spike for fine audiencing and encouragement and such. Also to the marvy LaT, for beta.

Ray's in the wrong neighborhood. Sure, there are a   
lot of dangerous places in Chicago, but this   
neighborhood is just plain *wrong*. Like maybe he   
turned the corner and into... The Twilight Zone.

Not that there's anything *noticeably* whacked   
about the area, or the bar he's in, or, for that   
matter, the stool he's sitting on and the whiskey   
he's nursing like a dirty little baby.

On the contrary: the whiskey is neat, the stool   
spins without a creak, the bar is quiet but not   
dead, the street was clean... And quiet.

Too quiet.

Ray laughs at his own scene-setting, to himself.   
But that's just it -- he's by himself. He knows   
full well what neighborhood he wandered into   
and, by rights, there should be all sorts of dark   
eyes watching him suspiciously.

Or at least conspicuously not watching him. As it  
is, he seems to be just another guy in this bar. 

Maybe they think he's albino?

Nah, his eyes aren't that red yet. Basically, he's   
wandered into some extremely well-behaved   
territory. Which means someone is *keeping* it   
well-behaved.

Which means he's very much in the wrong   
neighborhood, as he doesn't have the foggiest   
clue who that might be. 

Probably a good idea to get his scrawny white  
ass outta this bar.

Ray takes in the rest of the patrons with a   
quick glance into the mirror behind the bar.   
Talking, laughing, smiling. Confident looking   
people. *Canadian* looking people, 'cept that   
there's no way they're relaxed because they   
believe the police'll take care of any unforseen   
problems.

Not for the first time Ray curses himself for not   
doing more extra-curricular study about his new   
and improved precinct. 

Sure he has the Vecchio-ness down as much as  
possible, but he could've maybe learned a little   
more about his surroundings. Maybe just a  
little.

Vecchio would pretend he had his shit down.

Whoops, that was true. Almost slipped out of   
character, there. He may not have any idea what  
he's doing, but he Knows What He's Doing. Yeah. 

Ray knocks his shot back (what else does Vecchio  
drink? probably wine all Italians drink wine),   
turns his grimace into a smirk, and squares his   
shoulders a bit. 

His own movement catches his eye and he looks   
into the mirror again.

And this time he's eye-to-glass-to-eye with the   
first person to look at him, really *look* at him  
all night.

Big, bad, and bald. Black? Puerto-Rican? Whatever,   
the closest thing to the guy's skin color he can   
come up with at the moment is Kahlua. (chick   
drink) 

And the guy's still looking.

Vecchio would make a smart-ass remark here,   
but whether or not that's a bright move is up   
for question.

Ray decides to break eye contact first -- and is  
glad of it. Big boy came with an entourage.   
Glance down the bar and the on-his-best-  
behavior bartender is mixing something   
vaguely complicated and very specific.

A regular customer.

An *appreciated* customer.

A customer who doesn't have to pay one thin   
dime. 

Well, here was the local tough, then. How local   
was still an unknown, but it wouldn't hurt to   
watch a bit. 

Ray signaled for another drink. As expected,   
when the bartender turned Big Boy turned a   
little, too. Built a little like someone who maybe   
was a linebacker in high school. Still (overly)   
large, but a little soft around the edges. 

Liquid brown (black) eyes. Nice mouth.

Whoops. 

If there's one thing Ray knows about himself   
it's this: When the mind said the words 'nice   
mouth' to him, the body had already been   
broadcasting 'do me' in the possesor of the   
nice mouth's general direction for God knows   
how long. 

Well, hell, it's not like the people looked   
particularly *afraid* of Big Boy...

It occurs to Ray that saying the words 'Big Boy'   
out loud is liable to get him severely bruised. 

Whoops some more. Vecchio would... hmm.   
Vecchio would probably not flirt with Kahlua   
the Hard Guy. 

Ray tries on another smirk. Kahlua has not   
paid one moment's attention to his drink or   
his entourage in quite a while, and now he   
practically snorts at Ray.

'Are you for real?' is what that look says. 

Ray's reasonably sure that, if he were to look  
in a mirror, "smirk" would not be the first   
word that occurred to him. 

Leer, maybe. Hunger was a possibility. Drool   
sounded pretty likely.

Vecchio would not drool at Kahlua the Hard Guy,  
no, but Vecchio was probably getting laid. By...   
someone. Heh. Ray had been Vecchio for about   
a week and no hidden girlfriends had crawled out  
of the woodwork... yet. 

But see, Feds missed things. There was a woman   
*somewhere*, and Ray just knew he'd have to do  
some explaining and... Kahlua is talking. 

"Y--"

Not to him. Ray shuts up. 

Tries to make his ears work extra hard, but for   
some reason the music (music is playing?) is   
suddenly much too loud. 

Ray catches himself squinting (and why did   
people do that when they were trying to hear   
quiet stuff anyway?), which only gets him a   
better view of those moving lips, a half smile...

Another look from Kahlua, and this time he   
doesn't even try to have a smirk in place. Man   
oh man he needs to get laid more often if this  
is his reaction just to a pair of shoulders,   
creamy skin, big, soft lips --

And Kahlua's smile this time is way too   
genuine for both of them. Ray checks the   
other man's goons himself but they have --   
conveniently -- moved further back into the  
bar. 

And Kahlua is moving, too. In his direction. 

What Would Vecchio Do? Ray nearly starts   
giggling, bites it back. One-night stands   
rarely react well to giggling.

One-night stand? Is he really gonna do this?

Kahlua brushes past him, warm and wearing   
some kind of cologne that smells way, way   
better than it had in the store. "Outside."

Well, he's gonna do this. 

One, two, try to look subtle, three, finish your  
drink, four, would it be a bad idea to call him  
Kahlua or not, five and out the door and   
which way is he supposed to walk?

Left. Kahlua is clearly a leftward thinking   
individual, yes, left is a good idea, and if left   
isn't a good idea Ray will clearly turn around  
and walk the other way. Very fast, because as  
uncomfortable as it is to walk very fast, it's   
less comfortable to just *have* an erection he   
could beat suspects with.

And wham-bam, there's a warm hand curling   
into the back of his jacket and yanking him   
into an alley.

Gritty brick wall against his back then and the   
warm hand moving over his shoulder, knuckles   
brushing his cheek briefly, hand moving down   
to his chest. Pressing there, not so much still   
as *waiting*. 

Ray realizes his eyes are closed and rectifies   
the situation.

And outside of the bar, under the autumn sky,  
Kahlua looks just as hungry as Ray feels. Eyes  
still look black, streetlight gleams mellowly on  
that elegantly rounded bald scalp and Ray   
wants -- more than anything else right now --   
to lick it. 

"Do you suck?"

"Fuck yeah."

Wicked smile with broad undertones of general   
good cheer and then that hand is back on his   
shoulder after too-brief a detour to Ray's nipple   
and Ray is

going

down.

And, all things considered, Vecchio shows a lot of  
aptitude for blow-jobs. Kind of surprising that   
he moans like that after the first four inches of   
thick heat disappear into his mouth, but Ray has  
always found that it just isn't a good idea to   
underestimate one's alter ego and --

"Jesus... fuck -- you do this a lot, white boy?"

Well, there's no reason to answer that question.   
And just to make sure Ray took another inch   
(Vecchio, you *slut*), and all further questions   
dissolve into groans from above. Hands settle in   
his hair, not gentle but not rough, either. 

Ray is abruptly pleased he hadn't spiked it up   
today -- he has always liked this feeling, this   
warm needful kneading, and the fact is that gel   
isn't conducive to a whole lot of petting. Not   
like this.

He mmms his pleasure around the other man's   
length and earns his first thrust. Not entirely   
ready for it and it hurts a little, but the other   
man doesn't stop him from getting his hands   
settled on those hips and that... that's real nice.   
Yeah.

Stereotypical baggy jeans, denim scraping his  
palms mildly, and just below there are boxers   
and just below *there* are the vaguely padded   
bones of Kahlua's (doesn't taste like a chick   
drink at *all*) hips. Which settle real well into  
his grasp, still for him to get his breath and   
bearings and

oh, God, who knew Vecchio was a 'throater?   
Jesus, you just never knew what the feds were   
gonna leave out of a report. 

Ray breathes through his nose and his eyes   
roll back at the warm -- that's the word he   
keeps coming back to -- musk of the other man,   
sweaty and dark and not sweet, but *sweet*.   
The feeling... the way the scent sort of winds  
around his brain and blankets him... 

Nothing to do but suck and moan and drool a  
little, feel those big hands skipping over his   
forehead, his pumping cheek, around to the   
back of his head again where they settle and   
pull him in... 

Ray groans again, much too loud and the   
other man thrusts once, twice, pulls almost   
all the way out and slams in and Ray won't   
be able to say more than six words without   
coughing tomorrow, one more breath, deep,   
deeper and the other man is coming.

Right down his throat.

Well, Vecchio has way too much class to spit. 

And then he's being tugged back up to his feet,   
and he tries really hard to give some thought   
to what sort of muck he's gotten all over his   
jeans but, surprise surprise, Kahlua kisses him.

Kisses the hell out of him.

Hard, but a mouth like that makes everything   
easy... Ray takes the other man's tongue and   
sucks, moaning much more helplessly this   
time around. Vecchio seriously needs to get off   
and ohhh somehow those busy fucking hands   
made it right into his pants without his noticing.

Well, noticing specifics. Ray isn't quite sure how  
long he'd been humping in the other man's   
general direction, which rhymes with erection,   
which is exactly what's sliding into and out of   
the other man's rough, calloused grip --

"Give it up."

"Or what, you'll leave?"

Breathless dark chocolate chuckle against his   
mouth moving so damned smooth into another   
kiss, this one even more wrong than the last,   
just as soft and sweet as the fist around his   
cock isn't and Ray catches himself fisting the   
leather of the other man's jacket in a   
white-knuckled death grip but doesn't, can't   
stop --

And then Kahlua runs the tip of his tongue   
along the roof of Ray's mouth in one long,   
ticklish stroke and he shoots, grunting and   
shaking.

"Fffffuck."

A few moments to feel a smooth cheek against   
his own, the edges of an obsessively-trimmed   
goatee. A few moments to breathe and then:

"*Now* I'm leaving."

"Hokay."

And it is, really, though it's even better to feel   
that clever, evil hand slipping something that   
will undoubtedly turn out to be Kahlua's pager  
number into his right front pocket. 

God, Vecchio is a lucky bastard.

End.


End file.
